Page 79 of Wings of Destruction

It’s certainly true for the most ancient dragons, those like Omram. They are large enough to be unmistakable no matter where they go. They can’t fly high enough into the sky to disappear entirely, not without jeopardizing their rider’s safety.

Mind churning, I’m less inclined to be pissed off with the thief.

They touched my things, but they make good points, which leads me to believe the person on the other end of the pen has a keen mind and an insightful way of looking at life.

When was the last time I’d picked up the book? Sometime last week.

The notes are sprinkled throughout the entirety of the text, which makes my mystery writer quite a reader as well. They managed to get through the novel, no small feat, and the questions are no careless marks in the margin, no half assed notation without a purpose.

They’re honest. Raw.

A laugh bubbles out of me. I flip the pages faster until I land on a scrawled note beside a black and white line drawing of a baby unicorn.

Have you also considered the way a unicorn horn is able to break through dragon armor? Not to mention the weight of said armor, only for it to prove ineffective should they get too close to a rampaging herd?

“True.” I flip the page. “Too true.”

Something else Mozi complains about since he got scratched in the last battle. The dragon has been full of complaints from the outcome of the battle to our return to DragonSpear, especially when it comes to his personal safety.

The herd may have had a much better chance of winning if Omram hadn’t been there. But against Mozi? Eventually they’d have worn him down, especially considering how we left his armor behind.

We hadn’t wanted the extra weight while traveling.

Clearly, whoever wrote these notes has not only studied battle tactics but has cultivated a more instinctual knowledge, more than likely based on personal experiences. The questions posed aren’t a bad thing.

My eyes narrow. “It’s incredible.”

The texts diminish the advantages of land creatures versus expanding on the many opportunities their position grants.

The author’s voice is clear. I practically hear them in the room with me, sitting in the desk opposite mine and tossing out observation after observation.

If I had all day, I’d scour the book from cover to cover and give my full consideration to each question. Based on the thoughtfulness, the mystery reader deserves it. They’re insightful and honest. Open in a way that speaks to their integrity.

The last dregs of my anger trickle away.

With the right amount of training … this person has the capacity to be unstoppable.

Talk about a hopeful.

“I really hope you’re one of Astrid’s,” I say out loud.

If the students she wants to bring into our fold happen to be the one holding the pen, I can’t be angry about the vandalism. It shows guts.

I flip the book closed.

If it’s not a student, then it has to be a teacher or one of the older tenured professors. Potentially even one of the mount masters who oversees the choosing. Maybe the writer already has the training and I’m misreading the tone in the notes.

No maid wrote this.

Then again, some of the questions do speak to inexperience. I’d asked many of the same to my old tutors only to get a slap in the face. I should have already known those things.

“It’s fascinating.” I bite my lip and close the book, the pen beating out a harsh tattoo on the cover.

What’s fascinating?

Mozi comes awake with a yawn in my brain. Sluggardly dragon.

Someone’s left notes in one of my textbooks, I explain. He’s late to the party as usual.